


Smack Down

by cinereous



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Breaking and Entering, M/M, Object Fellatio, Oral Sex, PWP, Post-Canon, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 12:12:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18365774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinereous/pseuds/cinereous
Summary: What is more fun than breaking and entering into the arcade? Doing it with Iwai. Akira learns what it means to be a sore loser.





	Smack Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [Dick or Treat 2019](https://dick-or-treat.dreamwidth.org/)! Please go check it out! Beta read by habenaria_radiata.

    Returning to Tokyo for university was like coming home. Going back to his hometown had felt like death at the time. Everything moved slower there, and even though he had been released from incarceration, it hadn't really stopped his classmates from giving him evil side eyes for the entire remainder of his schooling there.  
  
    He missed his friends. He missed the diner in Shibuya. He missed Crossroads.  
  
    And what he found that he missed most was Iwai. The flower shop had smelled good and his boss was kind, but his feet always ached after his shifts, and it was loud in the underground mall. Crossroads was fun and sultry, but the customers sometimes got grabby or rude.  
  
    Iwai's shop had always been quiet and oddly comforting, despite the air of danger that seemed to swirl around the man at all times. There was something about that shop that called to him. He found that he visited it in his dreams often, walking in from the rain to find it cramped and dim and smelling like glue and polish and Iwai's particular brand of cologne. In his dreams, he walked in his wet shoes around the shop, palms leaving watery handprints on the glass cases, but Iwai was nowhere to be found.  
  
    Perhaps it wasn't a surprise that within his first week back, after getting settled into jobs and his new apartment, Akira found himself paying a visit to Untouchable. It wasn't like his dreams in reality. The sun was shining and hot, making his skin prickle under his thin white shirt, and when he stepped inside and into the blissful air conditioning, he was met by achingly familiar grey eyes glancing up over a gun enthusiast magazine.  
  
    Akira wasn't sure if he had expected fanfare. Iwai was not the celebratory sort, really. A small part of him was even afraid Iwai wouldn't remember him at all.  
  
    The look Iwai gave him was neither fanfare nor ignorance. It was something Akira still could not place. His eyes had taken on a quality like he'd seen a ghost as he slowly stood up behind the counter to meet him eye to eye. There were threads of silver gracing the hair at Iwai’s temples, and his fingers were smudged black from whatever project he had been working on earlier. The next moment, his expression melted over to a warm, gruff looking smirk, and when he spoke, his voice was just as deep and breathy as Akira remembered.  
  
    "You got taller."  
  
    It was such a strange thing to say for a greeting, but it made Akira relax enough to smile.  The longer Iwai stared at him, the more Akira was reminded that the last time Iwai had seen him was likely on the television in handcuffs. It made the oddly searching stare and quietly simmering, protective appraisal of his face make a sort of sense.  
  
    "You haven't changed at all," he tossed back, fingers clenched in his pockets as he chanced a smirk, and it was a great relief to see one offered back. "I moved back here for school. It doesn't start for a few days. I was wondering if you'd like to go to lunch with me at the diner. I missed it."  The ' _I missed you_ ' went silent, but Akira wouldn't have been surprised if it had scrawled across his forehead in that moment.  
  
    Iwai agreed, and his new life in Tokyo began over steak and coffee. The older man listened to every single thing he had to say while scrubbing fingers through his short hair, his hat and earmuffs on the table next to Akira's abandoned glasses.  
  
    Iwai had paid for the meal despite Akira's protest, and the heavy heat of his palm against the back of his neck as they left seemed to sear a brand of promise into his skin. Things would change.  
  
    And things did change.  
  
    Akira grins impishly as he tugs Iwai along by the wrist. The city is quieter at night, and the air is cold where it creeps up the back of his shirt. It always sends a thrill down his spine when he knows he is up to no good. He had been a menace in his younger days, between breaking into the school at night and climbing up buildings he had no right to even be near.  
  
    Iwai is a smirking, unhurried weight behind him that has to be pulled and dragged. Akira knows he's doing it on purpose, fucking with him when he can tell his lover is obviously excited. Akira finds he doesn't even care. The man looks good in a playful smirk, so rare on his face that Akira tosses him a matching one over his shoulder.  
  
    "We're almost there. Come on," he insists, pulling hard enough he's sure he might accidentally dislodge Iwai's shoulder. Luckily, that doesn’t happen. Iwai just keeps behind him at his own pace until they finally reach Akira's destination.  
  
    It is well past two am, and the street there in Akihabara is deserted, eerie, and oddly mysterious. The glass door of the arcade before them reflects their faces back at them like ghosts. Akira is excited as he hauls Iwai towards the back of the buildings, steering him to the rear entrance. As they reach the alley, he pulls out his phone and runs the app that Futaba had created for him. It doesn't take more than a few seconds before he knows the security system has been disabled.  
  
    With a flourish, Akira sinks down to a squat before the 'employees only' door and begins to pull metal tools from his boots. Even while he is concentrating on picking the door's lock, he casts a glance up at Iwai and positively preens under that gaze of bewildered admiration. What surprises him most is the way Iwai positions his body. He leans against the wall of the building lazily, blocking Akira from view should anyone walk down by the mouth of the alleyway. When fingers slide into his hair and send tiny shivers zipping down his back, Akira imagines if anyone _did_ walk by and see, they would think some very different activities were occuring. He can't help himself as he tosses Iwai a showy little wink just as the door's lock gives a satisfying 'snick' to let them both know it was open.  
  
    Akira hastily shoves the tools back into his boot and stands, opening the door and tugging Iwai into the darkness that was the employee area of the arcade. Iwai's boots squeak on the linoleum in the heavy silence, but as soon as Akira opens the break room door, the lights from all of the game cabinets pour over them like moonbeams.  
  
    If he had thought the street was eerie, this is otherworldly. Akira admires how hushed and beautiful the arcade could look when dark, empty, and lit with nothing but hundreds of strobing neon lights and flashing screens. It feels like a dream as he walks slowly in and goes straight for the game he'd had in mind when they’d gotten to talking earlier that evening.  
  
    The arduous process of learning how to shoot with any degree of finesse under Shinya’s tutelage made up some of his favorite memories from school if only because it had been so normal. It had been a fun past time, and while he had still been getting something out of it for his personas, he had genuinely liked hanging out with Shinya.  
  
    Those memories of being _happy_ flood him as he goes up to it and swipes a card he'd filled up some time ago for this very purpose. The game lights up and makes the familiar sounds of start up as he tosses a devilish smile over to Iwai still hovering in the darkness as if watching the streets through the windows.  
  
    "Well, come on. I can't kick your ass from that far away."  
  
    The goad works like a dream. Akira watches Iwai scowl deeply, and the satisfying stomp of his boots as he comes over in a quiet huff makes everything entirely worth it. The man pulls the plastic gun from its cubby and goes to point it at the screen. Plastic or not, there was something insanely sexy about seeing a gun in Iwai's hands, as if they were made for it.  
  
    The game itself is not the exact same one that Akira had played with Shinya a few years ago. It had obviously been replaced with the newest version at some point. The screen is still large and the blue opening menu still familiar. The deck is roughly the same as well, standing at about level with his navel with the two gun ports on either side of it. The guns themselves are different from what he remembered. They are smaller and lighter than their predecessors, and a matching neon blue.  
  
    Giddy and full of adrenaline, Akira reaches down and grabs the remaining gun. He falls into the stance that Shinya had taught him so long ago before he happily goes through the motions of setting up their course. Beside him, Iwai is quiet. His eyes watch the screen with quiet intensity as if he could already see targets on it. The man shifts the sucker in his mouth that was likely down to almost nothing. His tongue flirts along his lips sensually as he presses the stick to the other corner of his mouth, and that glimpse of tongue and sharp, slick teeth send a small explosion of warmth down his stomach. Akira swallows audibly amid that harsh splash of heat and rushes his eyes back to the screen to press start.  
  
     A countdown from ten begins. Akira could hear his heart thump dramatically in his chest with each number down. He can hear the rasp of fabric from Iwai's coat, and a soft plume of cigarettes and cologne waft over to him as the man falls into a more ready stance.  
  
    9...8...7...  
  
    "What do I get if I win?"  
  
    Iwai's voice is all bass and gravel in the silence, and his heart stutters and loses time with the countdown.  
  
    6...5...4...  
  
    "Winner takes all," he murmurs, trying to keep his voice and his smirk confident as he barely glances at the man out of the corner of his eyes. Fuck, does he like the look that slowly crawls across Iwai's face at that, and the way his back seems to straighten more as he levels the gun at the screen.  
  
    "I plan to."  
  
    3...2...1...  
  
    The screen opens up before them with the enemies starting to pop up all over, but Akira already knows the opening sequence. He fires by pure memory towards the targets, and without even looking away from the screen, he grins, lifts a leg, and leans over to shove his foot hard against the back of Iwai's leg.  
  
    The dead leg works instantly. Iwai crumples beside him, catching himself on the deck to keep standing, but his concentration is shot, and he is now at a disadvantage. Akira feels like a god as he keeps shooting with glee. "Come on. Keep up, old man."  
  
    "You fuckin' punk," Iwai growls, already getting back to his feet and aiming.  
  
    Akira can _feel_ the glare radiating from the man, but doesn't allow himself to look as he keeps up his gleeful grin and killing enemy after enemy. It was a good thing he'd taken the chance, because Iwai is _good_. Way better than he has any right to be when he’s never played this game before.  
  
    That isn't to say that Akira plans to go down without a fight. Excitement and thrill rush through his veins as he keeps on shooting, scooting over to Iwai to bump his hip against his and playfully shove at him with his free hand. Iwai is like a stone pillar except for the grin on his face. He bears every shove and slap and tickle like a mountain. The only means of defending himself he uses is to reach out and grab Akira's wrist while still staring with deep intensity at the screen and firing.  
  
    He can feel victory slipping from between his fingers. He used to be so good at this! Akira decides to take drastic measures. The next moment, he slides in front of Iwai, planting himself between him and the deck. Not only would his curls disrupt Iwai’s field of vision, but he also had the added bonus of undeniable pleasure that was pressing his ass back up against him at the same moment the big boss appears on the screen.  
  
    Hot breath blooms against his ear, and stubble scratches at his jaw causing Akira to gasp and misfire at the enemy. "It's like that, is it? Kid, I'll wipe the floor with you."  
  
   _Fuck._  
  
    Akira's whole body burns with arousal as Iwai obviously stares at the screen from beside his head and keeps shooting. He's steady as the surface of a well. Even if these were real guns with real recoil, Akira imagines he still wouldn't flinch or shake. Akira does his best to keep playing, but it becomes near impossible as he begins to feel the outline of Iwai's arousal through his jeans.  
  
    His breath is too thick in his lungs, and his skin is practically _itching_ with sweat and want. It is not misery that floods him as the victory screen suddenly flashes across his vision proclaiming the win was not his, but Iwai's. White hot lust flares in his chest instead as the next second Iwai whirls him around and yanks him into a kiss so hard and passionate Akira's knees buckle.  
  
    The moan that leaves him is almost obscene as he lifts up on his toes and eagerly wraps his arms around the man's broad shoulders. He feels feverishly hot, and Akira takes great pleasure in shoving at his jacket until it falls to ground and leaves him down to his favorite tight-fitting black turtleneck.  
  
    The kiss pauses for only a split second, long enough for Iwai to yank the stick that remained of his sucker away before he is kissing him again. His tongue snakes into his mouth without invitation and twines fervently with his own. The taste of peach floods his mouth and causes Akira to groan loudly for him. It was his favorite flavor of Iwai; faint cigarette smoke, peach hard candy, and the steam-like aftertaste of sake.  
  
    Iwai does not let him enjoy it for long. Strong fingers curl vice tight into his hair and pull by the roots, yanking Akira away with a gasp of pleasure and disappointment. Iwai's eyes look both more shadowed and brighter than ever under the glow of the machine, but the look in them is not what Akira would describe as smug. It is a look of pure predatory victory, as pale and sharp as the scars that litter his knuckles.  
  
    He'd once heard a man say that Iwai had beaten down fifty men in a rival gang. Iwai had said he was exaggerating, but looks like this one always made Akira wonder if perhaps that man been speaking the truth.  
  
    "What's that thing they say? To the victor go the spoils," he whispers, already almost sweetly dragging Akira downward by his grip on his hair. For his part, Akira doesn't fight it at all. His legs already feel weak. It is simple and easy to let them collapse slowly under his weight until he is on his knees on the floor, right where Iwai obviously wants him.  
  
    There is something unfathomably erotic about fumbling with Iwai's fly and looking up at the man. The lighting and this whole adventure makes him look larger than life in this moment, a veritable giant. His shirt clings to every muscle, and the light from the game flashes eager pools of light on each one as if gilding him.  
  
    The sound of his belt and zipper is so loud in the room that it makes Akira hold his breath. As he eagerly adjusts his jeans and underwear out of the way to expose his cock at last, he forgets how to breathe altogether.  
  
    He's seen his cock a million times by now, but it never seems to matter. In this moment, it sits heavy and full, pale and almost mysterious in this lighting, like a will-o-wisp over a lake beckoning him forward. Akira doesn't resist.  
  
    He leans forward with a shameless sound of delight as he brushes his nose against the base of the head and hungrily presses his lips against the underside where the vein is most prominent. His mouth waters as the smell of his arousal, thick and intoxicatingly masculine, overwhelms him. Akira doesn't resist as he lets his tongue slide in a slow, sensual line from the base up to the tip before he lets the point of his tongue flick like a snake against the slit.  
  
    The sharp, heavy exhale up above him is all the confirmation he needs to know that Iwai is pleased. It's still not enough. With a jump of his eyes up to Iwai, he goes to delicately wrap his lips around him, fingers curling into tight claws in the man's jeans as he relaxes his throat and slowly sinks down over him. The pulsing heat of him so heavy against his tongue is what he daydreams about when he's alone. It fills him with wants he couldn’t list before he moans so luxuriously that Iwai could feel the vibration heavy against his cock.  
  
    As he looks up, Akira is genuinely startled to see Iwai isn't looking down at him. Even from his low vantage point, he can see the flush curling pink fingers of arousal along his neck and cheeks, but his eyes are fixed on the screen. While one hand remains buried warmly in Akira's hair, the other one is still holding the gun and pointing at the screen.  
  
    Deeply curious, and in spite of his mouth still being busy, Akira looks at the screen too. It's almost hilarious to him as he realizes that Iwai is fucking filling out his initials for the leaderboard. For some reason, the way he nonchalantly does this while receiving head in an abandoned arcade just makes Akira want to please him more.  
  
    Akira greedily yanks his hips forward, fighting past the initial scream of his gag reflex until his nose brushes the sleek hair of Iwai's navel. His throat protests, but Akira ignores it in his adrenaline, swallowing around the thick intrusion before slowly sliding backwards again.  
  
    The fingers in his hair tighten hard in a way that makes his toes curl, and Akira repeats the over-eager slide and swallow again until he's absolutely positive he has Iwai's attention. The game's sound is back to the start screen. Its catchy little tune fills the background as he pops backwards with a loud, wet gasp to catch his breath.  
  
    He looks up from beneath his lashes at Iwai, his lips damp and bruised and his cheeks flushed. He knows how he must look. He doesn’t care. He fully expects Iwai to take control again, to push his face back towards his cock without a word, but instead the grip in his hair tugs upwards a bit, letting him know without words that he wants Akira to stand.  
  
    Confused, Akira complies, but makes sure not to go very quickly so that Iwai still has to pull at his hair the whole way up. On his feet, he doesn't feel incredibly steady, swaying forward into his chest and wanting to purr as he feels Iwai's hand leave his hair so that he could wrap that arm around his waist.  
  
    What he doesn't expect is Iwai suddenly pressing the plastic barrel of the gun up against his lips.  
  
    "What the fuck, Iwai. That's gross," Akira splutters, rearing back and rubbing his lips with the back of his hand. Iwai looks completely unmoved, smirking and apparently waiting him out. "A million grubby hands have touched that thing. It's disgusting."  
  
    Every word just seems to slide right off of Iwai as the man tightens his arm around his waist, clutching him impossibly closer to the point Akira can barely stay on his feet without standing on his booted toes.  
  
    "But I won."  
  
    His words are deceptively soft, and as Iwai presses the muzzle to his lips again Akira finds himself staying still as if utterly compelled. Iwai is smiling again, looking so unfairly handsome and _happy_ himself that he knows he can't tell him no.  
  
    Disgust wars with absolute lust in his stomach while Akira delicately parts his lips and drags his tongue along the barrel of the gun as if afraid it would bite him. No taste greets him, thank fuck. These were obviously replicas of old school arcade guns that resembled glocks most closely. Instead of the incredibly bulky, futuristic versions from before, this is simplistic and sleek with no real markings.  
  
    Despite knowing that this thing was probably a disease breeding ground, Akira finds that Iwai's gaze on him far outweighs anything else. Deceptively soft grey eyes pierce bullet holes of their own into his skin, and Akira _thrills_ at seeing just how hot and bothered this is making him.  
  
    Absolutely starved for Iwai's approval, Akira gives over to his task with newfound enthusiasm. The sensation of taking the hard, rectangular shape into his mouth is so different from how it felt to go down on Iwai that it's absurd. Even so, Akira hungrily sucks against the smooth surface of it and takes it all the way down the barrel until his lips bump up against the trigger guard.  
  
    It's short enough and doesn't bother him at all, which means he can put on a show. Feeling nothing short of scandalous, Akira begins to bob his head slowly and rhythmically over the barrel of the gun, reaching out to clasp Iwai's hand that was holding it in a clear plea for more. With each slide up, he flashes his eyes towards his lover and makes sure to moan deeply as if he has more in his mouth than just plastic.  
  
    For his part, Iwai watches him while barely blinking like he can't look away. Even so, he shifts after a couple of minutes and commands Akira without words to hold the gun himself, but obviously doesn't intend for him to stop. Akira obliges curiously, and with his hands now free Iwai reaches down to begin opening his fly with quick jerks that jostle his whole body. It doesn't surprise him when cool air hits his legs a moment later as Iwai yanks his jeans and his underwear down in one go in a thoroughly impatient manner.  
  
    Iwai straightens up at his side, and Akira watches him unearth a small travel sized bottle of lubricant from his jacket that was discarded on the floor. Akira was in the habit of demanding things in just about any public space. The travel bottles had become...necessary. Akira is desperately thankful in that moment as his heart jumps up into his throat with excitement.  
  
    Stubble burns deliciously along his neck as Iwai kisses at his throat and scores his teeth against the delicate skin there. All the while, Akira keeps up his attention to the gun, falling into increasingly lurid sounds the more eager he gets. He's so far into his own sexual show that when the gun is pulled out of his mouth so suddenly and roughly it clacks against his teeth, Akira is startled enough he jumps.  
  
    His only warning is the sound of the cheap plastic toy clattering on the ground down below before Iwai was hoisting him up into the air and stealing his breath with the most demanding kiss Akira has ever experienced. He clings to Iwai's neck and shivers as he feels the bare skin of his ass pressed down on top of the deck between the two gun slots. If he wasn't painfully turned on already, the sensation of Iwai's cock already slick and pressing up against his entrance is enough to make his whole body reach a scorching level of lust.  
  
    Akira digs his nails into Iwai's neck and yanks him foward as hard as he could while wrapping his legs around his waist, inescapable and fingertrap tight. His stomach is burning down to ash, his face still stings from Iwai's beard, but he doesn't care.  
  
    He stares Iwai dead in the eye as he digs his heels into the man's lower back and _pushes_ until he feels the hot, thick intrusion of his cock sliding into his body. He uses his teeth to score his lower lip and slides his fingers up under his cap to grip at the longer hair he hides underneath as if for something, anything, to hold on to. Only once he feels anchored and less like he might go flying apart in every direction does Akira smirk up at him and nuzzles almost sweetly at his nose.  
  
    "Give it to me," he whispers, his voice breathless and wanton around the sharp edges of his demand.  
  
    And Iwai's chuckle is _everything_. It shoots warmth down to his toes lightning fast, but it is the feeling of him thrusting his hips forward hard and unapologetic that makes him cry out with pleasure. He sounds so incredibly loud and shameless there in the empty arcade, and it's more than obvious that Iwai loves seeing him so vulnerable.  
  
    Iwai gives him everything he wants. He thrusts into him powerful and fast, steamrolling him hard enough against the deck that it squeaks in protest. It's rough and less than considerate, and Akira has never been more aroused. He rakes his nails so hard along Iwai's scalp and neck that he expects to feel blood when the man lurches down to kiss him straight into oblivion.  
  
    Smoky peach blares through his senses as he babbles incoherently for yespleasefuck _more_. Iwai is so thick inside of him, demanding his attention, demanding he make way, demanding he take every inch he's offering. Akira can't even argue, only dig his heels in hard enough to bruise.  
  
    If the alarm system turned back on in this exact moment and police arrived, Akira wouldn't even care. Let them take him. In that moment, all that matters at all is the sensation of Iwai's hand as it suddenly wraps around his neglected arousal and sends cascades of pleasure kaleidoscoping all over his body.  
  
    The slam of Iwai’s hips again and again while he bites, kisses, and burns stubble bruises into his neck leaves him mindless. Akira isn’t sure his moans even sound human any more. His pleasure climbs and climbs just like his body temperature. He can feel sweat rolling down his neck and his back, to the point he feels like he might melt.  
  
    Iwai's hips snap back. Akira tenses immediately, bracing himself for a particularly hard thrust -- right up until his cock slips free of his body. The cry that leaves him is almost _offended_ , but before he could get a complaint in edgewise Akira is grabbed off the deck, shoved around, and bent over it instead.  
  
    Pleasure fucking sears down his back as Akira realizes what is happening, and he grips at the deck for dear life as he feels Iwai drive home again. The angle is perfect in ways he couldn't even hope to describe. Iwai slams into his prostate effortlessly with every single push of his hips.  
  
    Lightheaded, delirious, and desperately muffling his begging into his sleeve, Akira rushes to drop his hand down. He wraps his fingers around his cock and begins to furiously touch himself as Iwai's fingers curl fiercely into his hair.  
  
    It's too much. Orgasm hits him with the speed and force of a train and swarms every single last coherent thought from his brain. He cries out Iwai's name as his hand slams out to smack against the screen in front of him for balance, and he knows without looking that he's spilling all down the front of the machine's start buttons.  
  
    His knees shake threateningly as Iwai thrusts into his hypersensitive body, once and then twice before he feels the full body shudder that he knows is Iwai finishing as well. As the man eases slowly out of him, he suddenly feels chilled, ravaged, and so _empty_ that he wants to do something as stupid as beg him to start over again.  
  
    Instead, he shivers there against the deck and slowly lifts his head. The game had entered into the idle mode where it showed demos of gameplay on the screen. It feels oddly fitting, watching the screen flash with flames and pixelated words that scrawl across his field of vision. It’s nice to have Iwai’s fingers sift through his hair, soft and offering a much needed dose of affection.  
  
    They make him chuckle, and Akira tiredly hangs his head to enjoy the sensation of Iwai gently doting on him and giving him that moment to recuperate. The screen's words burn in the darkness behind his eyelids and make his self-deprecating smirk linger.  
  
    GAME OVER.

 


End file.
